MURDER BRIEF (10 page)

She said: "Thanks."

Torkhill looked her straight in
the eye. "If you’ve got any more questions - about the novel or
anything - give me a call, OK."

She averted her gaze.
"Sure."

When she reached the pavement
outside, she mobile phoned Beverley Nolan at work.

They exchanged hellos and Robyn
said: "I’ve just been speaking to Terry Torkhill, who told me
something very interesting."

"What?"

"He claimed that Alice Markham
had
two
lovers. He admitted he was one of them, but couldn’t
name the other one."

Beverley sounded genuinely
surprised. "You’re joking, right?"

"No. Alice told him she had
another lover."

"She might have been lying."

"He doesn’t think so."

"Well, I don’t know who the
other guy might be. Alice only told me about Terry."

"I thought she told you
everything?"

"She did and that’s why Terry’s
probably wrong."

"OK. But if you work out who the
other lover might be, give me a call."

"Don’t worry, I will."

It was now almost six o’clock.
Robyn headed straight home. When she got there, Veronica wasn’t
around. She ate some left-over lasagna, went upstairs, lay on her
bed and started reading
Waiting for Rain
.

As Hugh Grimble had said, it was
about a drought-stricken country town where everyone is going mad.
The townspeople suffer from boredom, alcohol abuse, violence and
heat. Someone starts killing cats and dogs, then graduates to
little old ladies. Eventually, the police discover the culprit is
the local priest, who’s lost his vocation. The novel ends with the
priest immolating himself in his church.

Robyn couldn’t stop reading it.
Four hours later, when she’d finished, she knew that Richard Olsen
was a brilliant writer. She also suspected he was slightly
demented. But demented enough to kill? She had no idea and was
curious to find out.

If Robyn wanted to ask Rex
Markham any questions, she was supposed to funnel them through her
instructing solicitor, Bernie Roberts. But she was too impatient to
take that course. The next morning, she phoned Rex direct.

"Hello, Rex Markham here," he
said guardedly.

"Rex, this is Robyn Parker, your
junior barrister."

His voice brightened. "Oh, yes,
how are you?"

"Fine. Look, I’m sorry to bother
you. I’ve got a few questions to ask, about the case."

"You want to ask them right
now?"

"Yes, if you don’t mind."

He paused. "I've got a better
idea: why don’t we have lunch together? Then you can ask as many
questions as you want."

Barristers weren’t supposed to
meet their clients without their instructing solicitor present.
"Umm, I’d rather not."

"No, I insist. What about
Olivia’s, in Paddington, at 12.30."

"I really don’t think I
should."

"Good. I’ll see you there." He
hung up.

Robyn hesitated. Should she go?
Oh, hell, why not?

Olivia’s was a posh French
restaurant on Oxford Street, with tables spilling out onto the
pavement. When Robyn arrived, Rex sat inside, next to the front
window, idly munching dry bread. Several other patrons eyed him
discretely, reveling in his notoriety.

In the strong light, he looked
pale and drawn, which was hardly surprising. In his position, she’d
have lost all her hair and ground her teeth down to the gums.

She said: "Sorry I’m late."

He rose and shook her hand. "No
problem. Thanks for coming."

She sat and scanned the
restaurant. It was a fancy place that served morsels artistically
arranged on a plate. The waiters all slid around on the balls of
their feet, looking intense. Most were probably aspiring actors.
Right now they were playing waiters and giving the performances of
their lives.

He said: "I should apologise for
forcing you to lunch with me. But, right now, I’m rather short of
lunch companions. Most of my fair-weather friends have stopped
calling." Rex glanced around. "Even now, I can feel eyes drilling
holes in me."

"Forget about them. You’re
innocent."

He smiled. "Thanks. But business
first: you said you’ve got some questions?"

"Yes. You see, I’ve been digging
around a bit, to find out if anyone else had a motive to kill your
wife."

"Really? Any luck?"

"Yes. If I recall, you thought
she was cheating on you?"

"That’s right."

"Well, I’ve discovered she
was."

Rex filled his cheeks and
exhaled slowly. "Christ. Who with?"

"A writer called Terry
Torkhill."

"Torkhill? The crime
writer?"

"Yes. Do you know him?"

"Yeah, but not well. I’ve only
met him a few times."

"Alice handled his career."

"I know. Are you sure they were,
umm…?"

"Yes, I spoke to him yesterday
and he admitted it."

"Wow. Do you think he murdered
her?"

"No. He’s in the clear."

"Why?"

She described Terry Torkhill’s
cast-iron alibi for the night of the murder. "So, you see, he was
15,000 kilometres from the murder scene."

Rex sighed. "Damn."

"But it appears he wasn’t your
wife’s only lover."

Rex looked stunned. "You’re
kidding?"

"No." She repeated Torkhill’s
revelation that Alice claimed to have another lover.

Rex said: "That’s
unbelievable."

"Not really. Once she had one
lover, it probably wasn’t a big step to have two."

"You mean, she got a taste for
it?"

"Why not?"

"But Torkhill can’t name the
other guy?"

"Correct."

"Christ. Alice really did get
around, didn’t she? I suppose she found that pretty easy with me
spending so much time down at the beach house, writing my
novels."

"Yep. So have you got any idea
who the second lover was?"

Rex shook his head. "Not a
clue."

"OK."

"How did you find out about
Torkhill?"

Robyn had promised Beverley
Nolan not to name her as the source. "I’ve promised not to
say."

"OK. Is that the only reason you
wanted to talk?"

"No, there’s another
matter."

"What?"

"Your wife acted for a writer
called Richard Olsen - or, at least, that’s his pseudonym. He wrote
a novel called
Waiting for Rain
."

"I know. So what?"

"I was wondering if you know his
real name?"

"Why do you want to know that?
Is it important?"

She shrugged. "Probably not. But
your wife thought Olsen was infatuated with her. And just before
she died, Olsen sent her a new manuscript, which has now
disappeared."

"And you think this Olsen -
whoever he is - had something to do with her death?"

Robyn shrugged. "I don’t know. I
just find the timing very curious. Don’t you?"

"Yes. But I’m afraid I can’t
help you: I don’t know his real name."

"Alice never told you?"

"Correct. She said she’d
promised not to reveal it and I didn’t press her. In fact, I wasn’t
all that interested. I started reading
Waiting for Rain
and
gave up after about thirty pages. It’s pretentious twaddle."

"So you didn’t write it?"

He leaned back and laughed. "Of
course not. Why would you think that?"

"Oh, no particular reason. Just
idle speculation."

"Well, you’re wrong."

"And Alice didn’t write it?"

"No, I don’t think so. In fact,
so far as I’m aware, she had no literary ambitions at all. Loved
books, but not writing them."

A handsome young waiter appeared
and they both ordered lunch. Rex also ordered a bottle of
chardonnay.

As the waiter left, Robyn leaned
forward. "How are you coping with the strain?"

A facsimile smile. "Surviving.
At first, of course, I was stunned. I mean, almost overnight, I
found out my wife had been murdered and I was the prime suspect.
Suddenly got more publicity than I dreamed possible. That’s a lot
to digest in one go. My whole life tipped upside down. But I’m
slowly adjusting. Indeed, this whole farce is starting to feel
quite natural."

"I think you’re very brave."

He smiled. "Thanks. I hope I can
stay that way."

"I’m sure you will. So tell me
about Alice. Did you love her?"

"Yes, at first, before
everything fell apart."

"And how do you feel about her
now?"

He frowned. "It’s hard to say. I
mean, I’m very angry that she cheated on me. During our marriage, I
stayed faithful: I had chances to stray and didn't. But I suppose
my main emotion is guilt."

The last word worried Robyn. She
prayed he wasn’t about to confess he murdered his wife.
"Guilt?"

"Yes."

"Umm, why?"

"Because our relationship became
so bitter. For some reason, we just grew apart. And now she’s dead
I’ll never get a chance to say sorry and repair the damage. That
feels horrible."

Robyn was intensely relieved he
hadn’t confessed to murder.

Rex leaned forward. "Anyway,
let’s talk about something else. I want to get my mind off this
case."

"OK. Tell me how you became a
novelist?"

He smiled and told her how,
while working as a foreign correspondent in Jerusalem, he decided
to write a novel about a Palestinian attempt to assassinate a
visiting US President. "It was as if the novel had been sitting
inside me all my life, waiting to pour out."

The rest of the meal passed
pleasantly enough. Rex gave her a potted summary of his literary
career, the highs and lows. He slowly relaxed, growing more
articulate and amusing, obviously finding their chat a great
release.

It was nice to dine with a
well-spoken man who used his knife and fork properly, didn't push
his peas around the plate and could interpret a fancy menu. But she
spoke the truth when she told Brian she didn’t find Rex attractive.
Yes, he was intelligent and successful. But he was too old, too
arrogant and in too much trouble. Nor could she forgive his violent
altercation with his wife. No, when she totted up the ledger, he
was well in the red. She sympathized with him, but that was
all.

After Rex paid for lunch, they
strolled out to the pavement.

He said: "Thanks for having
lunch with me. You’ve really raised my spirits."

"Think nothing of it. I enjoyed
myself."

Rex hesitated, as if he wanted
to say more, but just nodded his head. "We’ll obviously be seeing a
lot of each other. If you’ve got any more questions, give me a
call."

"Will do."

He turned and strolled off,
whistling.

Just before midnight, Brian
Davis sat in the living room of his big harbour-side apartment in
Milson’s Point. It had a high ornate ceiling, polished cedar floor,
white leather couches, art deco lamps and black onyx coffee table.
Aboriginal paintings lined the three interior walls. Through a long
window he watched the dancing lights of a ferry pass in front of
Fort Denison. Beyond the fort were the ghostly shells of the Opera
House.

The interior decorator he hired
had promised to create "a very masculine environment". Brian was
now convinced the decorator, who was ultra-camp, had no idea what
"masculine" meant. How many of his guests had looked at the décor
and wondered when Brian was coming out? Now he had to hire another
bullshit-artist who'd charge double when he heard Brian was a
barrister.

He’d just arrived home and
devoured a takeaway pizza, but still felt strangely empty.
Something was wrong. He knew what: Robyn Parker. He couldn’t stop
thinking about her. Working closely with her on the Markham case
had boosted his desire
and
frustration.

He’d kept his distance for a
while now, hoping she’d appreciate his charm and tact. But she’d
shown no interest. Of course, she sometimes batted her eyelashes or
smiled at one of his jokes. But that meant nothing. All women
flirted, even when they hated a guy, just for practice.

Still, he sensed she was keen on
him - how could she not be? - but too shy and hesitant to take the
first step. Maybe it was time to stop being tactful and put the
hard word on her. Yes, that was what he'd do, at the right moment.
Surely, she'd thank him when he did.

In the meantime, he definitely
needed female company. Thank God he'd arranged to see Patricia
Lenehan tomorrow morning. She was a barrister he’d been bonking for
five years. They met secretly because she was already married.
Indeed, before their affair started, she made it clear that she
loved her husband and would never leave him. Brian assured her that
he fully understood and would respect her wishes. Indeed, he was
delighted to get regular sex without commitment. Later, when he
discovered she was a sex maniac, he knew he’d hit the jackpot.

He often made sure she was
briefed as his junior counsel in cases. That gave them a good
excuse to meet in his room and shag each other silly. Fortunately,
he had a "conference" with her pencilled in for tomorrow morning.
He couldn’t wait.

Robyn hadn’t told Brian Davis
about her little investigation into Alice Markham’s murder, because
he’d have tried to stop her, arguing she was a barrister not a
detective. Now she had to lay her cards on the table.

The next morning she strolled
down to his chambers and asked the receptionist if he was
available.

She glanced at the diary in
front of her. "No, he’s in conference right now."

"Any idea how long he’ll
be?"

"No. But it’s been going for a
while. He shouldn’t be much longer."

"OK. I’ll wait."

Robyn sat in the reception area
and watched Brian’s door. She only had to wait a few minutes before
it swung open and a tall leggy woman in a business suit strode
purposefully towards the lifts. Robyn had bumped into her a few
times and knew she was a junior barrister called Patricia Lenehan.
Something about her appearance today was a little odd, but Robyn
couldn’t figure out what.